Butterscotch Sundae
by QuakQuak
Summary: Hers is a different kind of beauty—one of scars, eccentric combat boots and overalls and butterscotch Italian eyes. George Weasley/OC
1. Combat Boots and Weasley Red

**Butterscotch Sundae**

**Chapter 1 - Combat Boots and Weasley Red**

"Oi! Would you mind turning up a _little _bit later next time? It's not like we've just missed half the _lesson _because of you or anything!"

Steeped in venom, the voice of Louise DeSarge rang impossibly loud in Chiara's ears as the latter made her way to one of the few vacant seats at the front of the classroom, eyes downcast and shoulders hunched.

"Oh, loosen up, Lu!" came a cheerful voice, which Chiara ignored, only relieved that she'd managed to reach her seat and settle down without a fuss.

"Why? Because I, as opposed to you, happen to be interested in actually learning something here?" snapped Louise, also known as The Obnoxious Harpy, and the argument went on until Flitwick put a prompt end to it by assigning both parties a three-foot essay outlining the reasons why it's not a good idea to disrupt lessons.

* * *

><p>"Morning!"<p>

Chiara looked up, not at all surprised to come face to face with Katie Bell, her classmate and friend of sorts.

"Hey," she said with a tiny smile, before returning to her book.

"So, have you had a good summer?" Katie pressed on, planting herself next to the girl, resolute that this time, she'd crack the shell of that strange, huddled up creature in the scuffy combat boots.

"Mm," nodded Chiara indifferently.

Katie stared at her hard before heaving a mighty sigh and deciding—like many times before—that trying to chat to this girl was officially a lost cause. Chiara Annetta Morelli just didn't seem to _want _to be chatted to.

Chiara's butterscotch-coloured eyes remained fixed on her book and her demeanour didn't shift one bit as Katie took two steps at a time to the girls' dormitory. She only tucked a few loose copper-brown tendrils behind her ear and turned a page, apparently unaware that Katie had now returned—and was not alone, either. In tow came Angelina Johnson and Alicia Spinnet, all three of them whispering furiously among them and stealing glances at the hunched form on the armchair by the fire.

"What should I say?"

"—can't do it—"

"—she just _won't_, don't you get it?"

"—if we'd just—"

"_Chiara_, hey!" An unnaturally bright Angelina beamed at the girl, who once again patiently paused in her reading to listen. "We—the girls and I—we were thinking...there's two free periods in a row this afternoon and we're planning to go sunbathing by the Lake. The weather's brilliant and Alicia will have a picnic basket prepared for us as well. D'you want to come?"

"Um, no, thanks, I want to finish this," she indicated the book on her lap. "But thanks for the offer, anyway."

"Sure," muttered Alicia, privately thinking there had never been any chance of the girl accepting in the first place. "No bother."

With awkward smiles, the three Gryffindor Chasers headed off. Sighing, Chiara pulled a long piece of parchment out of her sling bag, glanced at the heading of _Describe the Properties of Elfswort and Its Use in Modern Potioneering_, dumped it inside again and, making herself comfortable on the armchair, became fast engrossed in her book.

* * *

><p>"I've tried to get her to come with us, but she just won't! I don't know what's wrong with her..."<p>

"Chiara's always been like this, Kats, it's not your fault. Just forget it."

"But she's nice, she really is!" the short, curly-haired Chaser protested, squirming and making Alicia's job of smearing suntan lotion on her back rather hard. "She's just a bit of a...a shrinking violet."

"Oh, a _bit_, huh?" snorted Alicia, while Angelina bit her lip, wanting to agree badly, but not daring to. "The chit's the most antisocial person I've ever met and she has the worst taste in clothes in _history_. And she's Italian, you'd say she'd be the exact opposite of this."

"That's racist, Ally," Angelina pointed out tiredly, rolling her eyes.

"But she does!" Alicia insisted.

"I get the feeling we're missing the point here!"

"Which is?"

"What can we do to un-freak the freak," supplied Alicia.

"ALICIA!" warned the two girls in unison.

"What _I _don't get," Alicia went on, fingers entangled in her strawberry blonde hair, "is why, given that she wakes up at like, _five _pm, she's almost always late for class. Why she sits alone THE WHOLE TIME, and insists on using that hideous neon blue pen so no one can make out what's she's written, and, most importantly, why, in the name of Merlin's frilly underwear, doesn't she ever seem to care about a little _gossip_!" fretted the blonde. "And _what's _with those god-awful overalls and combat boots?"

"I had a _completely unjustified _feeling _you'd _ask that, Ally..."

* * *

><p>Madam Pince, her waxy, shallow skin stretching over her prominent cheekbones, peered over her hooked nose at the tomb-silent library. It being only the fourth actual day of lessons, the high-ceilinged room with the endless corridors and the shelves stacked high with books of your wildest imaginations was very nearly deserted, yet there was still the occasional student hunched in a corner or casually browsing, or nearing desperation over an essay that just won't sum itself up.<p>

Chiara trailed the fingertips of her right hand along the vertically stored spines of the ancient volumes, eyes rapidly moving from one title to the other and lips inaudibly half-forming the words. A look of recognition crept up on her face and she paused, stretched to the best of her ability and, with a little effort, managed to extricate a specific book. Thing was, as soon as she got her hands on it, the volume was snatched away from her by a passing blur of red, which stopped a few paces ahead—long enough for her to place 'it' correctly as a boy from her own year—thoroughly examined the book in question, raised an eyebrow and shook his head—Chiara found herself unable to tear her eyes away from that shock of ginger hair—before turning to a slightly bewildered and still Chiara.

"No, won't do—Ah, sorry, there, just checking if this is the mutated copy my brother and I planted here on Thursday. Obviously..._not_. Here." He smiled and handed back the book to her, motioning at the same time at the title, "_Bundimun_?" a questioning look on his face.

"It's this...greenish _fungus_. With eyes," explained Chiara, recovering quickly (What was his name, she _knew _his name, she just did...). "It says here..." she flipped through the pages expertly, eyes roaming the print, "Ah—_An infestation of Bundimuns can destroy a house, as their secretions rot away the foundations. This same secretion, in diluted form, is used in some magical cleaning solutions._" (_NAME!_)

"Should mention that to my mum. Fancy cleaning your house using _fungi_!" he grinned, dazzling green eyes dancing as he gave her an once-over. Two random things seemed to strike him in her appearance—one, the thin, pinkish scar running jagged from just above her left temple to half an inch below her earlobe. Two, the fact that her hair colour seemed to shift depending on the way the lone streak of sunlight from a window fell on it.

"Actually—"

"George!"

"Ah, duty calls! Beware, Madam Pinces of the world!"

And with an exaggerated gesture towards her, he disappeared behind a bookcase.

(_NAM_—Oh, that's right—_Weasley_.)

* * *

><p><em>She's clutching the bundle against her chest and stamping her feet against the ground in an attempt to warm herself up. He jerks open the door thankfully soon and his hair is shaggy and he hasn't had a decent shave for weeks, his clothes filthy, frayed, but his bright blue eyes are smiling at the sight of his sister on the threshold.<em>

_"Sweet Merlin, Riccardo," Chiara whispers, flinging herself at her brother and hugging him tight, as though she has no intention of ever letting go._

_Riccardo laughs, and his laughter is like purifying water, washing over the girl with utmost relief. "Couldn't resist dropping in, could you? Still, I'd have picked a less...ungodly hour."_

_"I couldn't _not _come! Anyway, I've got to go to class later, I haven't got time. That horrid woman's handing out detentions left, right and centre and I'd bet I'm next on her list," sighs Chiara, shaking her head. "Here__—__I nicked those from the kitchens. Should be enough till I visit again."_

* * *

><p><em>"Where have you been?"<em>

_Riccardo lets out a deep sigh and opts for an evasive reply, "Here and there."_

_He's lying on the hearthrug in front of the blazing fire, his head on his sister's lap, recently washed black hair spilling all over her white dress. She's stroking his head softly, trailing patterns on his skull. She loves her big brother beyond measure; he feels he wouldn't be able to go on if anything ever happened to her._

_"What's here and there?"_

_"Places. People."_

_The stroking stops momentarily. "What people?"_

_"_His _people."_

_Her hand trembles, but she keeps running it through his hair. "It's getting serious, then?"_

_"More or less."_

_"And Father?"_

_"Left again last week. Won't be coming back for another month."_

_"And then?"_

_"Who knows?"_

_Silence ensues, interrupted only by the crackle of flames. Then—_

_"Riccardo__—__"_

_"No."_

_"But—"_

_"Chiara, don't."_

_"No one would know!" she bursts out. "Think about it, Ric; freedom! Father doesn't think us capable of it, he'd never suspect—"_

_"_He _would know," Riccardo interrupts her quietly. He's sitting upright now, looking straight at her. "You don't understand, Chiara, you've never seen him...what he can do to people...He'd find out all about it before you could say 'pure-blood' and then we'll be done for. You don't know...once a Death Eater..."_

_Instinctively, they both cast a short look in the direction of Riccardo's left arm; it twitches nervously and Chiara averts her eyes with painful knowledge. She brings her knees up to the level of her head and buries her face in her crossed arms, rocking back and forth. Without hesitation, Riccardo inches towards her and puts an arm around her small body._

_"Come on, _amore_," he whispers into her dark hair. "I'm here, hm? I'll always be here."_

_And, somehow, the girl raises her head and gives a weak smile, before cuddling in her brother's arms._

_She has to leave before nine o'clock, but can't help prolonging her short stay, treasuring the moments in which she truly feels at home. As she steps out of the tiny house, she embraces him and promises to be back, at the same time making him swear he won't 'convert' both in English and in Italian. That's what she calls it in her mind, a conversion. The last thing she wants right now is to have her own brother crudely wrenched away from her because of some stupid wizarding war._

_"_Be safe,_" she whispers to him in their mother tongue and he stands watching her as she's swallowed by the mist._

* * *

><p>Back on track! Well, how about a bit of feedback there? Don't really want to beg, but...well, you know! Anyway, have a marvellous day and thanks a bunch for reading!<p>

Effie


	2. Luigi

**Chapter 2 - Luigi**

"This term, class, we will be focusing on the theoretical rather than practical aspect of Transfiguration, so as to establish that none of you have any questions or difficulty as regards theory in your upcoming exams."

A flurry of whispers immediately rose and an expressive groan of discontent was heard from the back of the classroom. McGonagall's cat-like eyes promptly scanned the class to pinpoint the agitator.

"Yes, Mr Weasley, _theory_. Perhaps you would like to give me the pleasure of submitting at least one assignment which will not be graced with a 'P'." she barked, characteristically sadistic.

There was a collection of subdued giggles, quickly hushed.

"As it happens, this is your final year at Hogwarts," McGonagall went on solemnly. "With your NEWT's looming ahead, I may well assure you that the past six years will seem to you like a _picnic _compared to these exams. For that reason, I expect you to work hard and _pay atten_—Mr Weasley, to the front, NOW!"

"Busted. Your turn or mine?" muttered one of the carroty-haired Weasleys to his brother at the far end of the room.

"I did it last term; stage's yours."

"_Arrivederci_, Life," he sighed, before reluctantly whomping up his things and trudging off.

"You will be working with Miss Morelli from now on," said McGonagall crisply, indicating where he should seat. Chiara stiffened. "At least _she's _sensible enough to keep you in line."

And as soon as she turned her back, George Weasley performed an uncannily accurate impression of a fuming McGonagall, causing the entire class to burst out laughing.

"Do I know you?"

Chiara stopped doodling and, distracted, started sucking at her neon-blue pen before realising what she was doing and promptly putting it down.

"I'm...Chiara? Chiara Morelli." He noticed she pronounced it the Italian way. "I'm in your House." She searched his face for any sign of recognition.

"Ah, yeah, the Fungus Girl."

Was this the worst day of the year or what?

"Guess you could say that," Chiara muttered, feeling her cheeks reddening. She ought to have expected something like that after six whole years of questions like 'Chiara Who?' and 'Are you some new girl?' but it still made her feel a bit bad. "And if we're introducing ourselves, which Weasley twin are you?"

"The handsome one."

Chiara gave a involuntary guffaw and quickly checked to see if McGonagall had noticed.

"I'm George," said the redhead, a bit more seriously. "And this whole splitting-up-the-twins-because-together-they're-insufferable happens every year, so don't take it personally. The choice is completely random, you never know when you'll have to put up with either of us; you can see that just by looking over at Louise."

A couple of rows away, Louise DeSarge was glaring murderously at Chiara.

"I gathered."

She took a sidewards glance at the boy and realised, much to her astonishment, that he'd really grown quite handsome over the summer. Chiara habitually avoided looking straight at people she wasn't very well acquainted with, so she couldn't tell if the change was self-evident, or she thought so simply because she had never before taken the time to observe George Weasley.

Meanwhile—

"She's got a bit of a _crush _on Fred." George was explaining casually. "He had to work with her once and since then she hasn't stopped badgering him...me...She can't really tell us apart."

"How curious," snorted Chiara, smiling notwithstanding.

"All I'm saying, expect Dungbombs under your bed some time soon—I suspect she thinks I'm Fred right now."

Alarmed, Chiara glanced at Louise, then back at George.

"For Merlin's sake, tell me you're joking!"

But before the boy could answer, they caught the professor's hawk-like gaze, which seemed to question the wisdom of putting those two to work together.

.

"Um...D?"

"Sorry, you lose," Chiara triumphed silently, glancing up to check whether McGonagall had come too close.

George gave a hushed groan as he watched the rope tightening around the ink-drawn hangman. His stick arms flailed miserably and then his messily sketched body went limp.

"What's that word, anyway?" he asked, squinting at Chiara's minuscule writing. "Expropriation?"

"It's when you take away someone's property," Chiara explained maturely, enjoying herself with Weasley's ignorance.

"Fascinating..." he muttered boredly.

"Go on, pick a word, it's your turn," prompted Chiara.

George pulled the notepad towards him and sucked at his quill, contemplating, with half-closed eyes.

"There you go. Work _that _out."

.

"Higher—_higher!_"

"Right there—"

"Chuck it!"

"Don't push me!"

"Shut up!"

"She's turning!"

"Look clueless."

* * *

><p>George had been right, as Chiara was soon to realise. It didn't take long for Louise to confront her—in fact, two days later, in the Gryffindor common room after dinner, a shadow was cast over Chiara's roll of parchment and wouldn't go away.<p>

"Morelli."

"_Che diamine ho fatto io poi_?" muttered Chiara.

"Quit that!" snapped Louise. "I know you're saying something bad about me; I'm not stupid!"

"Did I say anything?" asked Chiara smoothly.

Louise pursed her lips. "What were you doing with Fred all lesson?" she demanded, ignoring Chiara's previous comment. "You wouldn't stop sniggering, I was watching you."

"Well, if you didn't have anything else to do..." shrugged Chiara, not bothering to correct the girl as to the identity of the twin she was working with.

"Anyway, just so you know..." Louise put her hands on her hips and her nose in the air, a self-satisfied smirk on her plush lips, "Fred likes _me _best."

"Best wishes, then," sighed Chiara, rather bored of this. "He's all yours."

Louise's eyes narrowed at the other girl, as though trying to detect a streak of sarcasm, a vestige of untruth. Finding nothing, she huffed and swashed off. At the portrait opening—oh, the irony—she bumped into George (evidently mistaking him for his brother) and, predictably enough, went into crazy mode.

"Oh! _Fred_, what a coincidence! I was just looking for you! I—"

"In a minute, Louise...Hey."

To her great surprise, Chiara realised he was actually addressing her. Without even comprehending she was doing it, she clutched her hardback more tightly, digging her fingers into the cover.

"Hey."

"Just realised I got your pen by accident," he smiled, handing her back the neon-blue pen. "And about that essay McGonagall set, I've got a free period tomorrow morning, we could do it then. Is that OK?"

Chiara caught sight of Louise behind his back, her eyes wide and her jaw reaching the floor.

"Uh-huh. Yeah. Sure," she smiled, and he returned the smile almost instinctively.

Oh, she was going to enjoy this.

* * *

><p>"Now, dears, <em>do <em>go to the fourth chapter of your book and read it. There is no need to talk."

There was no hurried, excited flipping of pages, no lively anticipation—all of this had died out some time during their second Defense Against the Dark Arts class that year. In the stiflingly sultry room, volumes were pulled half-heartedly out of bags, prolonged sighs echoed and significant glances were exchanged, only to be cut short—as they always were—by Dolores Umbridge's curt tapping on her desk.

"Miss Morelli seems to be _dying _to say something," Umbridge's falsely sweetened squawking cut across Chiara's train of thought. "Would you mind sharing it with the rest of the class?"

Gripping the underside of her desk, Chiara raised her eyes to the stump of a teacher. Fast enough, she realised she'd been thinking too intensely again, probably mouthing stuff soundlessly as well. Umbridge must have mistaken that for chit-chat (though with _whom_, Chiara had yet to find out).

"Well?" Umbridge's smile widened. "Would you?"

At Chiara's lack of response, Umbridge gave an exaggerated sigh and spared the girl a pitying look.

"Ah, Chiara, Chiara, Chiara...this truly isn't a very promising beginning, you know. Personally, I'd _hate _to have to report anyone to the Headmaster for disruptive behaviour during class," she smiled broadly at the seventh-years, a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. No one smiled back. Umbridge returned her attention to Chiara. "A pity. I know your father, Miss Morelli. And I can tell you, he will _not _be pleased to hear about this. You are bringing shame upon a very well-respected family."

Chiara had to bite down on her lip hard to refrain from retorting.

"I believe detention is in order. Don't you?"

* * *

><p>Good Lord, it <em>hurt<em>.

Physical pain was something she could bear, it not being a recent discovery to her. But pain inflicted to her _by _her, well...that took things to a whole new level.

"You are not in any distress, I hope, dear?" came Umbridge's voice, heavy with feigned concern.

Chiara, her lips pressed together, shook her head 'no', not trusting herself enough to open her mouth without feeling compelled to shower the toad-like woman in torrent of carefully selected Italian swear words.

_I must not become distracted during class._

_I must not become distracted during class._

_I must not become distracted during class._

_I must not become distracted during class._

_I must not become distracted during class._

_I must not become distracted during class._

It burned, and scorched her skin, and the parchment was stained with great big crimson-coloured blotches, but she had already decided she'd simply grit her teeth and endure it. Teeth almost slashing at her bottom lip to keep herself from yelping in agony, she went on and on, repeating the same mantra in her head countless times—

_There are worse things than that._

_There are worse things than that._

_There are worse things than that._

_There are worse things..._

* * *

><p>"How was detention with the hag?"<p>

She hadn't known he was there until he spoke, and the corners of her lips were unwittingly pulled upwards at his choice of phrasing.

"What are you doing here?"

"Just passing by. Got nothing to do. My brother's having a snogging session with your friend."

"Angelina?" It was a known secret that there was something going on between Fred Weasley and Angelina Johnson. "Didn't know they'd got to that."

"Oh, don't remind me," George said with such an adorably pained expression decorating his freckled face that Chiara couldn't help laughing. "Think it's funny, don't you?"

"Yes!"

"You cruel people," George shook his head, giving up trying to win her sympathy. "So, you didn't say—how was detention? Did she go too hard on you?"

Chiara bristled slightly, and shrugged. "Twas all right. Just some lines."

"Really?" He appeared somewhat relieved, running his hand through his wild mop of red hair and grinning at her, "Should've guessed she was the type that would give lines. At least it's not something worse, yeah?"

"Oh, yes!" Chiara agreed—perhaps a bit too heartily to be believable—and got ready to walk away. "Well, then...Good night."

"Night." He grinned, took a few steps, then stopped in his tracks, head down. Suddenly, he raised his eyes to the girl. "How do you say 'Good night' in Italy?"

She smiled cheekily. "_Buona notte_."

He nodded. "_Buona notte_."

* * *

><p><em>"Pap<em>_à__, _please_! Please, don't make me do this..._Ve ne prego...non_..."_

_"The Dark Lord needs someone inside the castle!" hisses Luigi Morelli in his distinctly accented voice._

_"He can use the Malfoy boy__—__he can use any Slytherin, please!"_

_"And I suppose all of these can saunter after Potter and his mates without drawing any suspicion to themselves, eh?"_

_"Pap__à__—__"_

_"_Zitto! _You are my daughter and you will do as I tell you! Now listen to me__—__you will be all ears and eyes in there. Miss nothing and report back to me."_

_"How? I can't leave school."_

_"Oh, you are clever, Chiara. _Una diavolessa._ You will find a way." And his reedy laughter echoes horribly in her ears._

* * *

><p>So, um...there you go, chapter two. Hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it (alas, I can only ever <em>hope<em>). Whatever - thanks very much for stopping by, and an especially big thank-you to all my reviewers! You rock my world!

Effie


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